Douche Club Manager

Me: Hey, how are you doing?

Douche Manager: I’m miserable. You can’t come in with the hat. I’ll hold on to it.

Me: You’re going to hold my hat?

Douche Manager: Yes, you can go in but I must hold on to your hat.

Me: Well, how do I get it back? Where will you be?

Douche Manager: I’ll be out here frowning. You can get it from me later.

Me: Well…

Douche Manager: Oh, you CAN keep your hat …

Me: Okay

Douche Manager: But you must stay out there. (With grin on face he points to dirty ass corner of the street.)

Douche Manager: Or you can hand me your hat so I can toss it on the street.

My vision turns to black and white but before I can slam my palm up through his nose, two girls walk up to the front of the line.

Two girls: Hey, can we go in?

Douche Manager: I am what puppies think about when they get neutered. No you can not!
Two girls: What’s your problem?

Douche Manager: I suffer from a condition where I have to eat runny goat shit to stay alive. It has given me a shitty, passive-aggressive disposition. You girls seem like decent people and shall never be allowed in here. I’ll only admit other douchey goat shit eaters into this club!

The two girls curse at the manager and tell him to go fuck himself to no avail. A line begins to form and it smells like goat shit. It looks like orange tans, Affliction t-shirts, $250 jeans, multiple layered pop collars, sport coats with skull graphics and P. Diddy impersonators. The bouncer offers to suck their dicks but they opt to exchange phone numbers and enter the club instead. I walk to a bar around the corner and return once my eyes leak vodka. I then incinerate the club using my mind burning the manager and his pals to ashes. When the police arrive I lie and tell them that I torched the place with gasoline and matches. They phone the mayor and he awards me a trophy for public service and a lifetime get out of jail free card. Then Megan Fox arrives. I show her a list of things that I WOULDN'T do to her. The list is blank. She has her way with me sexually.

The End

Supermarket Stalking

I think four aisles is my max. But on a typical outing I go for two and then just leave the store before someone calls security. Sometimes I even leave my items in the cart and walkout empty handed. I blame HER for being scared so easily.

We could have told the story to our families at Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner. We would bump into each other in the soup section while we both reached for canned tomato soup. We'd have a sweet conversation about grilled cheese and elementary school lunches. I'd smile and she'd laugh. Her mom would say it was cute. Her sisters would be jealous.

Instead she’ll be have another cellphone chat about how some dude with a staring problem had a boner while looking at teriyaki Tofu.

I don’t know how but I always get caught. I don’t get it. I follow all the rules.

I stay half an aisle away. I glance at them from the corner of my eye. I grab an item and read the nutrition facts when confronted with possible eye contact. I stare at either the ground or ceiling lights when passing directly by her. But she still knows. The flabby assed woman looking for Spaghettios knows it. I’m sure the retiree stealing handfuls of peanuts knows it too.

Maybe if I didn’t sweat so easily or breathe so damn hard I could come in under the radar. Or maybe if I didn’t hit four kids with my cart or knock down a stack of canned tuna fish my odds would improve as well.

This would work if I was the bashful type and had a little boyish charm. You know, I’d keep my head down and smile at her, look away innocently before she notices but turn back slightly to see if she’s looking. And it would be okay because her beauty makes me nervous. So she’d come over and say hi, I’d smile and stutter a bit but it would be cute and endearing and we’d have a laugh about it.

Unfortunately raising my eyebrows like Charles Manson and nervously clutching a box of cereal does not contribute to this strategy. Nor does hovering over her while she stoops down to grab ranch salad dressing from the lower shelf.

Now when she looks at me, she gives me that rabbit meets coyote look, like I’m creepy. Well I think she’s creepy for not saying hello. But it doesn’t matter now. The stalker relationship has been defined. Now it’s time to clock her fifty yard dash.

This is when we’ll ACTUALLY be shopping for the same things. She’ll go for smooth peanut butter when I’m looking for chunky and switch her expression from scared house cat to pissed off mountain lion. And that’s when I regret having parked my car near hers because she has a full can of pepper spray and a purple belt in Brazilian Jui Jitsu.

I learn the hard way it’s hard rubbing your eyes with a broken arm.

Drunk Girl Bowling

Whatever you do, don’t jam your fingers up in her. This is not how this game is played. In this game we’re trying to stay AWAY from rape charges. Now what you gotta do is find a girl who is borderline Anna Nicole Smith drunk. I’m talking one eye is always facing north, bra strap is around her waist drunk. The goal is to get the girl on the floor while taking out as many people or glass objects as possible. Punching, kicking or throwing her is against the rules. Too easy. Also, you can’t get caught. The last thing you need is her friends to call over the bouncer just so you can leave with your face broken.

Techniques

1. Trip- Simple and effective. Not very flashy but it gets the job done. You know the deal. Drunkee passes by and your out placed foot stays firmly planted. Thing is something’s got to give and my money says the one in the 3 inches heels carrying a handbag full of coupons and eyeliner in one hand and a fish bowl full of some blue mixed drink with her eyes half shut will be licking the floor boards quickly.

2. Bump- Like a matador it should be done with grace and flair, otherwise you’re just a dude pushing a drunk girl over. Thumbs down, meathead. Now take your shoulder, elbow or hip and gently guide her off course. You either want to get her when she’s on one foot or mid step. Then bump. But don’t plant yourself. This isn’t king of the hill we’re playing. Slide your way through the crowd or use a sweet ass spin maneuver. Try some Heisman trophy like footwork but just don’t take the stance.

3. Take Away- Funniest of all the techniques. Feint a kind gesture, like a comforting pat on the back and a handshake. Make sure you feint enough to where drunkasaurus rex will lean in to reciprocate but before she can make contact, look over her shoulder and wave to a friend or pretend that you heard your phone ring. Her beer soaked brain will be banking that those guiding hands of yours are enough to support her and provide sure footing but she doesn't know that they've vanished. If she’s enough of a mess, taking her 2 degrees off from vertical is enough to set this girl off balance and hopefully into a cocktail waitress.

Falls

1. Jaw Plant- She comes down straight like a yard rake to the face. She can’t move her hands in time to brace for her fall and takes it all on the jaw. Might be time to take a trip to the dentist.

2. Drag Down- It’s like learning how to ice skate as adult and you’ll be damned if you’re gonna bust your ass on that ice, so you grab your friend that brought you skating in the first place and lean on them as support but in turn end up taking both of you down. Well the girl is drunk, so she’ll paw at everything and everyone to keep herself up. That’s why you’ll be standing six feet back, nudging your friends in the arm, laughing.

3. Shoulder Slide- It’s like Slip-and Slide. She takes to the floor, on her side, shoulder first with no chance of regaining footing or dignity until all the mixed drinks, beers and floor scum come off her dress and out her hair. What will stop her is either a bar stool, a wall or the legs of a few unfortunate bystanders. And she won’t just take out one person. She’s sprawled out like a big on a skewer. She’s taking out a bachelorette party. And there she’ll be on her back, rocking like a turtle, under a pile of arms, legs and spilled beer bottles, speaking some drunk zombie tongue, and that’s when the bartender throws down his towel and yells at you “she’s had enough to drink, dude, get your Grandmom out of here.”

Testosterone Midget

Excuse me. Are you assaulting me? I can’t tell if you’re bonding with me or trying to knock me out. I’m only letting you punch me in the arm because you have the strength of a sickly baby goat and you remind me of a My Buddy N’ Me doll. But don’t let that discourage you. Keep swinging and head butting me. It’s cute. Maybe if you jump you can reach my shoulder. Don’t forget to curse. Despite the fact you can fit in a Hot Wheel car, your language does make you appear to be a giant of a man. Go easy on me, Goliath. I figure you might be drunk. How many drinks does it take for you? 1 sippy cup, maybe 2? No, wait. It must be all those manly hormones swimming around in your 7 year old body. No wonder you’re so angry. You’re trying to get your dick wet but you shop at Baby Gap. Your pseudo racism is now forgiven! Making a racist comment and then taking it back is hilarious, especially when you do it to a complete stranger. How stupid of me. You’re just trying to bring everyone around you to your level of insecurity and self loathing. Very impressive. I like the combo of physical and verbal assaults Testosterone Midget. I just came out to drink and have a good time and you feel comfortable enough to share your tiny, little world with me. But I don’t think everyone appreciates you the way I do. You deserve someone that takes you seriously and treats you with respect. You’re not some organ grinder monkey or a spermed up sideshow freak. You are a human, emphasis on man. Just take my advice and stay away from human girls. The last thing you need is to fall in a vagina and have the girl thinking she’s pregnant and come after you with a hanger. Stick with gerbils and Bratz dolls. Please, touch me again, Testosterone Midget. I’ll do you a favor this time and crush you with a cotton swab.

Blazer Challenge

The participants must all wear blazers or sport coats, whatever you want to call them. The object of the game is to enter a public venue such as a bar, museum or an airport while smuggling the most interesting assortment of contraband in your blazer. Only when the players are admitted into said venue will the reveal of the contents count. Each item is given value through a point system based on 6 categories. The points are then added up and the player with the highest total wins. 1 point is awarded for weapons and/or drugs. 2 points for something that is living. 3 points for something that was once attached to something living (Hair and breast implants do not count). 4 points for anything on fire. 5 points for a prostitute. Flawless victory for carrying the spirit of the lord. Players that end up getting kicked out of venue, arrested or pregnant are immediately disqualified. In the event of a draw the person with less financial resources will lose. Now if said loser is homeless and has a top hat to match they will be awarded an additional 4 points for style. 6 points if the carry their belongings in a handkerchief on a stick.

Bearded Girlfriend

I don’t like going to the park. At least parks with swings. It’s because of my girlfriend’s beard. She likes me to push her on the swings but somehow she manages to get her beard tangled in that top bar overhead. Always. Don’t ask me how. It’s a gift. So she’s hanging there from her beard, head back, neck strained, kicking her feet and whining. I look for someone to help me laugh at her, usually a jogger, but they never stop. So what happens is some lady pushing her kid in a stroller will pass by and call me a jerk. I’ll call her damaged goods. Then some dude will ask “why is that goat hanging from the swing set?” “That’s animal cruelty, man.” And I’ll say “Hey buddy. That’s no goat. That’s my girlfriend.” The dude will be like ‘fuck’ then resume picking dinner out of the trash. You’d think that a bearded woman dangling from a swing set would draw a crowd but I guess it’s all that froth coming out of her mouth that scares people away. I take out my beard trimming scissors but she deftly kicks them out of my hand. “Do it the right way!” she screams. “Get the toolbox!” A half an hour and quart of Gatorade later I finish disassembling the swing set. She works her way off but her beard is split and mangled with bits of rust and metal flakes. She cries “My beard is ruined. I’m so ugly.” She always says this. And I shrug. I never argue with her because it’s the truth. I just hope she’s not ugly after the sex change is done.

Metro-Taur

Once upon a time, a man with the fashion sense of a woman had sex with a cow. A female cow. He either wanted to tick off the god Zeus or piss off his dad. Either way, the cow got pregnant and gave birth to an abomination. The half-cow, half-metro sexual beast known as the Metro-Taur. Filled with shame, the cow sent the creature to Ohio to hide and work as a convenient store clerk. The Metro-Taur grew tall and lanky and developed a lisp and never once did he ever commit a fashion faux pas but the beast's patience grew short and he delivered snappy, poor service to his customers. And so a rumor foretold that one day, a groovy man with jiggy ass drawing skills would encounter the beast and slay him with his verbal kung fu skills. And behold on this day, said groovy man did meet the beast and stood still as the creature sized him up through his hip, thick rimmed glasses and asked him if he wanted credit or debit. So the man paid the beast for his hoagie and double chocolate milk and left quickly, sparing the animal's life. Many will ask why he let the beast live that day. Some will say cowardice and others, mercy. Well it should be known that he couldn't wait to get out of that shop because it's uncomfortable as hell getting eye-fucked by a Metro-Taur. He dost not swing that way.

Gary Cant

Gary is a self taught Casio keyboarding genius. I first met him standing on the sidewalk outside a supermarket playing his hit single “What time is it?” Most people would say that the 4 word verse/chorus is repetitive and the out of rhythm foot stomps are distracting. I say it’s art. From his over sized wristwatch to his crayon box, squiggly line, camo-pants, the man oozes style. What drives a man to create a 12 minute long symphony with only 4 words? A passion for time management and love of soulful music. Coming out to see Gary perform on the sidewalk is like watching a preacher give a cripple boy in a wheel chair his vision back and then the boy transforms into a dove made of rainbows and paints a picture of interracial children jumping rope. It makes me tingle like butter. You gotta be careful though ladies, Gary may break your heart. For Gary, it’s always music first, and then health and other stuff second and third. He’ll ask “What time is it?” but he already knows. We know he knows. It’s time to cross the street.

Fuck You Ben

Fuck you Ben and your jerk-off facial hair. Ben, you are not a magazine that I would ever subscribe to. In fact I wouldn't even browse you at the book store. I would consider using you to potty train my dog but I would be wary that it might catch what ever douche virus you are carrying. You are a 23 story building of suck with broken elevators and a sock puppet full of curdled milk and rotten egg plant as a doorman. If you were a superhero you’re power would be making things awkward. If you were a supervillian, your power would be raping rainbows and drowning cats. You are the first sober person I’ve ever seen throw a beer pong ball underhand like a horseshoe. People that drink until they have Down Syndrome can understand beer pong but for some reason you can’t. Trying to impress your partner by telling her you’re a waiter for some ass-fuck of a restaurant may get you to first base but it’s just because she looks like a doll from a Japanese horror film and no one else will touch her anyway. Do you know what other sanitary wipe was named Ben? That’s right, Benedict Arnold. And he was a damn traitor. Just like you. And he’s probably the type to take the shit I say seriously, even though I’m so drunk that I can urinate out of my ears. Dear Ben, you are the worst kind of person ever. You probably buy your Grandmom men's shoes for Christmas just so you can borrow them knowing damn well you won't give them back. You are the type of guy that likes to get spermed up in the mouth. And the worst part is that you're not gay. You're all about the sperm. P.S. Ben. Go fuck yourself.

Anorexic Husky Vs. Asthmatic Husky

The only stats you need to know is that the Anorexic Husky is 40 pounds underweight and has an icy bitch stare. (HAHA she’s a female! Pun intended!) Asthmatic Husky has a bottomless stomach and weak lung capacity. What happens is when I put some food in Anorexic Husky’s bowl, she’ll look at me with her sad eyes of contempt and ignore the gesture like I’m asking her for money. Then I go back to my room angrily mumbling to myself. Asthmatic Husky moves in now to finish Anorexic’s food, but she’s a jerk and doesn’t appreciate anything and thinks she’s a princess and won’t look you in the eye when you pet her, so she snaps at Asthmatic. Asthmatic snaps back but gets winded and retreats to the back corner of his cage to bark and rant at Anorexic in safety. I come back out to the scene and Anorexic is pretending to be all sad so I go to yell at Asthmatic for picking on her but then I realize that he’s dead. As I turn to retreat, I realize it’s too late and I hear the cage door slam behind me as I see Anorexic with my car keys dangling from her mouth. As I cry and try to eat my way through the cage I can hear my car start and drive away. The winner: PETA.

Teenage Headed Baby

Regular headed babies are annoying enough as it is. They cry, poop all over themselves, make horrible conversation, cheat at video games and can’t hold their liquor. Other than having a crawling foot rest, I can’t see any practical reason to have one. Now if having a regular, healthy baby, (if you can even call a baby healthy. I think the fact that a baby is unable to defend itself and can’t walk makes it defective) is a hassle, imagine what fat armpit of hell it would be to raise a Teenage Headed Baby. As the name implies, you get a baby with a baby sized body but the head of a teenager. Imagine the shit you'd deal with! Having to ignore whispers from friends that your child is a hobbit or Humpty Dumpty. Having your child spit up food and follow it with “whatever”. Those damn looks of disapproval like you’re not cool enough to push his stroller. So you curse at him to cut the ish out, but he keeps doing it anyway because he’s a stupid baby that can’t speak English or answer the phone and you raise you hand to strike him in the face but remember it’s a baby so you go for the two-handed choke around the throat but before you can crush his windpipe he utters the words “daddy” and so you pull back and a tear rolls down your face as you walk out the door right into a moving bus because you realize that your baby is just a midget of below average intelligence and he’ll never play pro basketball.